Queen Without a Crown
by lacedoll
Summary: And so she performs. [LightxMisa]


A/N: Hello! This fic was part of the Death Note holiday exchange on tumblr ( .com). The prompt I received was a love story/scene/sex scene between Light and Misa. I was really happy to be presented with the opportunity to write a fic regarding their relationship, especially since this is Misa centered and we all know she needs some more love in the fandom. Any feedback is appreciated, con-crit or what have you, but whether you read or review or leave kudos or just want to take a look, thank you so much! I am grateful. Happy belated holidays, and I hope you enjoy it!

**warnings: **mental/emotional abuse, minimal violent imagery, sexual content (nothing explicit but just to be safe)

Queen Without a Crown

If Light Yagami knows one thing, it's that this wine is cheap and probably boxed and any other man in his position would've spilled it down Misa Amane's front by now. She is fake nails, blocky heals, curled hair, and tight black lace, a slinky little number she's no doubt been saving for a rare occasion such as this one, and fuck, this elevator restaurant music might be worse than her voice. But no, he decides, cutting into his steak, no, he would much rather be trapped with nothing but this nauseatingly drab smooth jazz on repeat than her voice punctuated by baby giggles and scarlet smiles. He'd prefer just about anyone to this, he thinks, he knows. Even Matsuda's vague and obvious observations about the lavish décor and potted plants would have been an improvement. But Matsuda is not here. No one is here. He is alone with the love of his life. In other words, it couldn't be worse.

"How's your steak, Light?" she asks with much more interest than he is comfortable with, daintily biting her own and making a noise that is so shrill he nearly shudders. "It's so good!"

"Yeah," he says, and maybe it is, maybe it's the best steak he's ever had, but food has never been more unsatisfying. He chews and swallows because that is what humans do; they take women to restaurants and sit at tables and talk about upcoming movie shoots and other horrendously boring things. They remark how well the meat is cooked, that this place is home to the best chef in town, and did you see those rave reviews in the paper? It's all fine and good and normal, and at the very least he is thankful that she isn't whining, but that is all it is. At the end of the night he'll return to the hotel, touch her about as much as he would a wet dog, wonder how many cheap lowlives have slept in the same bed, and find sleep.

If anyone asks, they're on this date because the happy couple hasn't had much alone time lately, what with the ongoing case, and it's not a total lie, but it's not something he minds, either; in fact, it's quite the opposite. Really, he's only here because the plane ride was exhausting, the peanuts were rancid and his water room temperature, but her insistence was the worst part. Maybe, he thinks, he's losing his touch. Still she's all smiles and a mouthful of beef and that is much better than it could be, he has to remind himself, but he isn't sure how long he can play handsome date tonight, let alone five days, and if Misa hadn't let the entire investigation team in on her little winter getaway vacation, his family never would have agreed to pay for half of it and he could have avoided this mess. Instead he's thousands of miles away appeasing a woman he can barely glance at without contempt, and even though the criminal deaths have already been set up for the next week, it doesn't change the fact that this is a waste of time. It might be the most time he's ever wasted.

Their waitress is young, blonde, and too loud, and her second question, the first one being how Light knows English so well, is where her outfit's from and where they're both from and oh, they're just the cutest couple she's seen in months. Misa answers in broken English, to which Light internally groans and externally laughs like a polite Japanese man of twenty-one should and responds with all the right answers so that she will stop talking and they can leave sooner. Turns out that even in America she's a sight to be seen. Go figure.

But because of that his patience is already thinning, and the night is young enough that he can't possibly convince Misa that it is time to leave. Women ask too many stupid questions, laugh without reason, bond over make up, none of which he understands or has any intention of ever understanding. So while Misa makes a fool of herself he sips his wine, tries not to cringe because it really is that bad and thinks about ways he can free himself from the situation. If this keeps up they'll be here all night and the waitress will expect a big tip. He's not cheap by any means, but she might hold them up for longer than is necessary, and that is more than aggravating. If he'd wanted to spend money on time he would have bought himself a fucking watch. But he listens to them giggle over each other's accents and pretends to think they're funny, and it is all so terribly dull he thinks about stabbing his hand with the salad fork.

Light taps his fingers on the tablecloth, his neutral expression becoming painful to maintain. Unfortunately he didn't foresee this outing lasting so long, and that was a mistake. No. No, the real mistake was giving in to Misa's outburst after they arrived. The investigation comes first. It always comes first. Kira comes first. What had he been thinking? Since when does she decide? After all, she is the one assisting him. It was never about her. It still isn't. But the fact that she's gotten this far already shows he's been cutting her too much slack. Since when does he do that? Every second he spends here is another he could be using to make sure headquarters is still running smoothly. Light exhales long and hard, clenching his fist as Misa asks him how to say wine in English. Calm down, he tells himself. There has to be a way out of this. Then his stomach lights up: he'll fake sick, the plane upset his stomach and the meal isn't sitting well with him. He can even throw up if he has to. No, no, that won't work. He'd probably earn them a free meal and they'd return to the hotel, but Misa would only use his weakened state as an opportunity to smother him. She might even go so far as to escort him to a hospital. That's the last thing he needs, and it certainly won't bring him any closer to his normal routine.

And then it hits him—he's Kira.

"Misa, we're leaving." He straightens his bangs and stands.

"What?" she says, smile fading as she drains the last of her wine. The waitress shoots him a puzzled look. "But Light, we've barely—"

"—Now." It's all in English for good measure. "Check, please."

The waitress's eyes widen, darting between the two. "Oh, well, if you're in a hurry, then, please," she replies, "I'll get your bill right away. Just hold on a moment." With that, she scurries to the register.

"Light!" Misa exclaims, suddenly at her feet, an infuriatingly red nail pointed in his direction. "We were having a good time! All I wanted was to have a fun night with you. That's all I wanted!"

"Don't make a scene," Light says, voice lowered through gritted teeth, and has she forgotten that there are four more days left of this? "You've already had too much. It's time to go." Her eyes are filling up, and wait, _that_ is the last thing he needs, and now of all times. They never should have come here anyway. It's her fault, of course, because all it takes is good looks, a few clever words, and the logic and reason practically toss themselves. Though it's worked to his advantage thus far, he often questions the value of her aid when it lands him in miserable dumps like this one, but he lets this thought fizzle because right now there is an inconsolable blonde on the other side of the table with an empty glass in hand.

"Katie and I were just getting to know each other! Light, this is really unfair…" She softens, falling to her seat like a dropped doll and reaching for Light's wine.

He slides it from her reach. "We can't waste any more time," he says with more disdain than he means to. "Now we're going. Come on." He offers his arm to her, because maybe that will help, and to his relief, she sniffs, throws her purse around her shoulder and squeezes it too tightly. It's like scolding a sniveling, spoiled child. He absently wonders if there is any aspirin at the hotel.

They pay their bill promptly while Misa pouts and mumbles incoherent nothings and he smiles and tips more than is necessary. She doesn't handle alcohol well, he says; he'll put her to bed as soon as they get home, he says.

"Rough night?" the cab driver asks gruffly, yawning as Misa stumbles into the backseat.

He squints. Christmastime in Japan is bad enough, he thought, but the blaring lights on every corner are enough to blind him. He orders the driver to take them around the block and Misa rests herself against his shoulder. "I don't want to go back to the hotel. We can go wherever you want, Light. Please? It's so beautiful outside, the trees and decorations."

He feels her shift. She's probably gazing up at him with big, gleaming eyes, but he doesn't know and doesn't want to. On top of that, the car reeks of alcohol, and while he's not sure if it's Misa or the cabbie, either way they need to get out of here as soon as possible before his nails puncture the leather beneath them. "You know we came here for that meeting." He can only imagine how many people this guy sees every day. For all he knows, they're a couple of unfortunate businesspeople.

Misa sighs heavily, straightening herself and crossing her arms. "I know, but I thought we could take advantage of that. We've been so busy. I just wanted you to have fun."

When Light doesn't answer, she repeats herself, and then he finally replies, "Don't worry. We'll do something fun tomorrow." He pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, eyeing the driver.

"Really?"

"Of course."

Minutes later they arrive at the hotel, Misa's heels scraping against the pavement as she steadies herself against Light, who all but rolls his eyes. When they reach their room she kicks them off and sinks into the bed while Light stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, massaging his temples. He fills a paper cup with water, swallows the aspirin from Misa's purse. Good, he thinks, they're back and in a good fifteen minutes she'll be settled down.

Keeping her happy is relatively easy, a painful chore at most, and at least her plan isn't uselessly sloppy, seeing as she waited until the case settled into a comfortable position—he can give her a gold star for that. Maybe, he muses, he should have expected this to happen sooner or later since it is what normal couples do. In fact, perhaps he managed to avoid it longer than the average man. But either way, she is still necessary, and if that's not enough to ease his mind, then the thought that he is still winning is. That's what he has to tell himself each time the words "waste of time" float back to him, because while admittedly he can afford a five day vacation without the case going awry, he cannot afford a blubbering Misa. That is something even the most empty of heads would understand.

"Light!" he hears her squeal from the bedroom, and the water spills all over his white button up. Blotting himself with a towel and scowling, he shoves the door open.

"What?"

"Come look! One of my movies is on TV!"

Huffing, he makes his way to the bedroom, undoing his tie and dress shirt as he goes, and when he reaches it she's still in her evening wear, legs spread and knees pulled to her chest. Her expression is the same one a five-year-old has while watching Saturday morning cartoons.

"So it is," he says, barely glancing at the television before removing the damp clothing and unzipping his suitcase.

"In this scene I—what happened to your shirt?"

He frowns. "Nothing."

Misa crawls to the edge of the bed, shrugging a thin strap off her shoulder. "Light," she breathes, pushing out her chest, "why don't you just come to bed?" She gathers her hair to one side, twisting a lock as what he supposes is a last resort.

"Misa," he starts, suddenly all too aware of himself, "we should really be getting some sleep. It's already ten o'clock." He finds his first set of pajamas but only stares at them.

"Like I said," she continues, "come. To. Bed."

Light has reached the conclusion that when this happens, there are usually only two viable options, neither of which are dignifying nor rewarding. One, he quickly strings an excuse together. This usually works because his softened voice and tired eyes are more than enough to convince her, and if not then a convenient interruption does the trick. However, there are times when reason fails, when no excuse could possibly deter her from what she wants, and, much to Light's dismay, what she needs. This, of course, is not only an inconvenience, but an unsettling one, to say the very least, because of the irritating and, more importantly, disturbing amount of passion put into each and every touch. He's begun to wonder if she's only slept with desperate, middle-aged businessmen, because he certainly feels like one whenever he appeases her. Fortunately, he finds a spot on the wall or an object on which to focus, tacks on a few well-rehearsed lines, and all is well. It is merely routine.

She smiles, coy. "You and I both know I didn't have much to drink."

Light scoffs, weighing the pros and cons. She would've conked out by now. "It has nothing to do with that."

"Do I have to beg, then?" She floats from the bed to his side, warm fingertips grazing his chest. "Because it's almost my birthday. You remembered, didn't you?"

The dropped hints at dinner, the little notes in his pants pocket, the constant reminders of the holidays. She's made her point. "I brought you to America for Christmas." He unbuckles his belt.

"I know, and it's really nice, Light, it is, but don't forget. This was my idea." Her eyes sparkle under the dim light, something empty and small and sad that he pretends not to see. It was her choice. Her choice, and her fault. Where is the remorse to be found in that? He doesn't have time for regret, for those lacking conviction, for anything other than progress. Besides, she's never belonged beside him, bright and loud and unyielding, so desperate that death is but a possible side effect. She is eyes, lips, flesh, and bone, but there is something else, maybe, something delicate, something glass that he wants to shatter. Why, why would she ever look at him this way, so selfish and wanting and everything that he will never give? Because she stays, stays with the kind of unwavering loyalty that he both loathes and needs. It is pathetic and at least pathetic keeps quiet, woos his family, obeys like a trained Labrador, but then this happens. This happens and he wants to break it.

When he looks at her again, the sparkle is gone. Perhaps it was never there.

"Misa—"

"—It's my birthday," she says, sliding his belt off and tossing it to the floor. It is some kind of desperate plea that makes him wonder how she isn't melting before his eyes, makes him writhe. "It's my birthday, but you don't care."

Her fingers circle his skin. He's overwhelmed with the urge to snap them but just swallows hard, barely watches as she shrugs the other strap away and undoes his pants button. When she whispers his name it's the most alive she's ever been and ever will be. He will make it stop.

She is soft all over, much too soft, the kind of woman people sink into without realizing. Because she grabs with doll eyes, pulls with tiny figure, kills with pouting lips, all while standing at the corner waiting for traffic to clear. So soft, so soft, in fact, that he sometimes imagines sinking his hands into her like a ripe peach when they're close. But he is not that kind of person, of course, and if only she'd just speak when spoken to. Still, he knows, soft is perfect. Ah, soft is all he needs. He runs his hand through her fallen hair the way Light Yagami might. This is the way it goes. And goes. And goes.

"Of course I do."

She pulls away, crossing her arms. "This is hardly a vacation, Light. I expected more. I even planned it for us."

Light sighs, raking a hand through his own hair now. "Do you hear what you're saying?" he says airily, but something tugs at him that he can't quite place. "This is what you wanted."

Her lips purse. "It was my idea, but you could have helped."

An expensive restaurant, five days at a renowned hotel, his attention—what more could she possibly want? "You know as well as I do that the investigation comes first." It is a perfectly logical explanation, and one that she understands, no, practically lives by now.

Misa clasps her hands together. "Of _course_ the investigation comes first, Light," she says with so much devotion he raises an eyebrow, "especially since Ryuzaki's death and all. We're the stars of the show, aren't we?"

He frowns, turning away and letting his black dress pants pool at his feet.

"But I mean," she continues with a note of amusement, "I don't know. I don't know if we can manage to pull it off. You know, without Ryuzaki's guidance."

He clenches a fist. "What?"

She shrugs. "Maybe being both L and Kira is just too much."

"Need I remind you why he's dead in the first place?" he says, deathly quiet.

"Of course not," she replies, stepping towards him, "but maybe…maybe you overestimated yourself?" A laugh. It's sweet. A wink. A compliment. A pose for a magazine.

"What are you getting at?" There is something unsettling in her voice, too smooth, too teasing. After all, she knows her job like a pet knows where its bed is, so what is this? Didn't she want to give her life? Didn't she want to be his tool, stripped bare and used? Always, always she says these things, things so easily believed, so pliable. He can stretch her any way he wants, position her to his heart's content. And now this. He grits his teeth. "Don't patronize me, Misa."

"But I'm not," she frowns. "I love you, Light. I want the best for both of us. I really do."

"Then what are you talking about? Maybe you do need rest after all. Come on, let's get to bed." That's it, that's all it is, he's getting ahead of himself. There is no need. The flight was long, she's had some to drink, it's almost her birthday. It is only natural that this should happen, some kind of malfunction, maybe. Yes, sleep will cure it.

She tiptoes, yanks his collar to whisper, "It's exactly as I've said."

Light jerks backward and knocks his head against the wall. Heart pounding in his ears, he grabs her wrist, pulling her close. "What is wrong with you?" he snarls, struggling to keep his voice low. "Why would you bring him up? Or any of this? You know what we've worked for." How funny it is, when it is he who builds, she who follows. Who sits at his feet? And L, who is far beneath even hell.

"Shouldn't we share secrets, Light?" she gasps, leaning into him. "Shouldn't we be aware of each other's weaknesses?"

"Without you there wouldn't be any weaknesses," he hisses, backing her into the edge of the bed and killing the TV and lamplight. "Have you honestly forgotten your place?"

"I could never forget." She falls to the mattress, peeling off her tights. Her eyes never leave his. "I love you, so I'd never forget."

"Good." He frees himself of the damp shirt, lets it fall somewhere and sinks his thumbs into her thighs as she lifts her dress enough to expose her chest and lets her head rest on the comforter, hair strewn across it. There is something almost too satisfying, how supple she is, how his fingers leave soft, white blotches behind. There is something almost too overwhelming. Oh, how she deserves this, how she fucking deserves this. "Tell me you know your place."

"I know my place," she whimpers, "I love you. I love you, I want you to love me."

"I do, I will," he whispers, running a hand up her thigh, "so long as you stand by me."

"Of course." She reaches out to stroke his hair.

"But not when you're pulling shit like this." He takes her hand too loosely, rests it at her side. "How many times do I have to explain?"

"No more," she says. "You don't have to."

And he shouldn't have to. How many times, how many times has he looked and seen nothing, absolutely nothing? How many directions has he given, how many orders has he demanded? Countless, and she learned to follow without so much as a disagreement. Because she knows. She knows better than anyone. Of course she does. There is no other way.

"That's right."

She nods, lets his hands stretch over every inch, every rounded edge, every corner and crevice until he can't possibly find any more to touch. But her breath hitches and he begins again, begins again every time. And she is his to control, she is his to use. What would she be otherwise? A successful model, an actress. But for what. For fan mail, for smiles and autographs, nice clothes, squeals and accolades. As if that is enough. As if that can compare. It is he who is responsible, he who keeps her heart in his fist. The rest is dust, bones, and dirt. If anything, he is doing her a favor that no one else will.

"You keep me safe."

"I do."

"You make me happy."

"I do."

"I'm so glad we went on this trip together. It's just what we needed."

"It was."

Light can't remember when he let himself go this far, win this much; it is usually the perfect time to begin contriving his next move, when her bones jelly and her voice only knows his name, but now there is this and he can't explain, can't say where or why his mind is, and it is both far away and much closer than usual. No, he has never gone this far, he realizes. For a moment his heart catches in his throat because she is important to keep, but oh, who is he kidding? She's forgotten her name and whereabouts, is only his. There is so much control he is brimming with it, and he has to admit, it is so exciting.

He breathes unsteadily from on top, leaning into her warm, slick body. "Tell me," he says to her ear, "tell me again."

Misa kisses his cheek with the same tenderness she would a baby, laughs so lightly it floats.

"You've overestimated yourself, Light."

He wants to turn his skin inside out.

And then he's pushed and rolled off of her, pressed to the cold side, can hear her little giggles again. "Light, I love you. I love you so much." And her body weighs on him, seems to weigh so much more. She's all over, lips to his chest, teeth to his neck, lips, nails to his arms, down and down and down. He only stares at the ceiling, it is all he can see, a blur of gold and red and flesh, not human at all.

"I said I love you. Did you hear me?" Her voice. She pushes him inside of her, hums, leans in to suck his neck, lick the beads of sweat.

"Misa." He is too low, he is too quiet. She sighs her love again, again, drowning out her name. "Misa." But her name will not come out the way he wants. His voice will not do what he wants.

And her eyes gleam, caught in moonlight leaking through the curtain, something frightening and electric that makes his breath catch. He sees her body, sees the pale and blue, the waves of hair, up, down, up, down, so warm she must be fevered, and he wants to speak. He should be pushing her, he should be pushing her off the bed, dragging his nails to her skin, letting his voice make her small, but it has left him, movement has fled somewhere and all he can do is allow her body to crush him, her moans, her touch aching and burning. He is nowhere to be found, swallowed by something terrible that he cannot explain. And he wants to move, wants to move so badly. This is not himself, no, this is not himself.

"This is how it should be," he thinks she says, but he can't be sure. She cups his face in her hands, kisses it like something precious, something hers, wraps tiny hands around his throat. "You keep me safe." She squeezes and releases, fingers crawl up his face and grab fistfuls of hair. He should be. He should be something.

"Now," she says, eyes wide and full, the bed springs squeaking beneath them, "you tell me. Tell me that this is how it should be."

It is, he thinks, of course it is. It is almost her birthday, they are in America, a five star hotel, five star beds, the restaurant, this was all supposed to be. He knew this, knew she'd pin him to the mattress and whisper these things. Yeah, because she needs this, this is how to keep her, just like always, isn't it? Isn't it? He planned the night, the moonlight, the way it hits the bed like a sliver of spotlight. His doing, all his doing. How little she knows, how much nothing she is, made of glitter and shimmer and sparkle. The light catches her, it catches _her._

"It is," he chokes. This is how it should be, her soul wrapped so tightly around his she clutches his throat for reassurance. This is how it should be, so caught she plans their vacation, she kills for him, she lives. How kind he is, to let her live, invade his privacy, help build this world when she is but a grain of sand at the bottom of the ocean.

She pulls his hair. "You couldn't do it without me," she says like she is confessing love. He realizes that she has stilled now, and there is nothing but the low drone of traffic to fill their ears, third party chatter he wants to switch off like a light.

He stifles a laugh. "And why is that?"

She smiles, the moonlight cleaning her up in a way make up never could. "You need me, Light," she says, pulling, and he's surprised to hear her fail to stifle her own laugh. "Just tell me that." Yet again her fingers release him, and they trail to his arms, sinking into him the same way his own had. "Just tell me that. Because you overestimated yourself. You did." She manages to say it the same way she says everything: too sweet and too easy.

But before he can answer she starts again, falling down on him hard and hissing quietly, and he holds his breath, digging his nails into the mattress. "Light," she breathes over and over, "Light."

"I need you," he says in disbelief, realizing his hands have made their way to her hips.

"Yes," she huffs, "you need me."

"_I_ need you?" He digs his nails.

"You do, you do. How could you do this without me?"

"You keep saying that," he grunts, thrusting against her, "but you're not saying why."

"You—_oh_—-you of all people need me to explain?"

"I don't need you to. I want you to. Get off—_get off._"

The next moment she is on all fours and he is pushing into her demanding that she explain, and for once he isn't thinking about why he is doing any of this, only that he has to do this and say this. For once he wants her pretty mouth to speak.

"To do your work," she whines, twisting her neck. "I look good for your parents and everyone else. And I'd never leave you."

"Yeah," he says, squeezing her ass. "Tell me more."

"Everyone likes me. They think I'm cute."

"What else?"

"I go away when you need me to."

Light smiles. "You're forgetting the most important part."

"I kill."

And he fucks her, claws at her back, yanks her hair, listens to her gasps and pleas as she writhes below him. Never has her voice been both so satisfying and angering at once. Her skin is perfect, it is just another fact, but oh, since when was it this smooth, so much he wants to rip it from her very body? Since when were her thighs so shapely, so pliant he craves to stretch them until they snap? It has never been so easy.

"You kill for me."

"I do."

"You are mine."

"I am."

"I have never overestimated myself." He groans, pulling out. "_I have never overestimated myself. _Look where we are. Look." His thumbs spread her open.

"Oh, Light, yes…"

"Do you understand now? Huh?"

"I understand," she cries, burying her face, "I really do."

"That's what I thought."

He pushes back inside until his body slaps against her, Misa fighting to begin the rhythm, but he seizes her hips because she is big and fluttery eyes, little voice, little girl that shines too brightly for her own good or anyone else's. It's blinding, so stupidly blinding, so he pounds into her the way he needs it while she wails incoherencies to the headboard and repeats his name.

"I love you, Light," she says after he comes and she is in his arms. All he can think about is her eyes.

Shatter, shatter, shatter.

There is nothing sexy about her boyfriend in pinstripe dress shirts and fitted suits, nothing cool about the way he doesn't care for coffee or breakfast foods, nothing hot about the way his eyes narrow when deep in thought. Absolutely nothing. That is why she can't stop staring at him in the backseat of the taxi, the way he is calm and silent and focused. So very focused. That is why she must always look her best. She wants to see him build, watch themselves float higher and higher until it is only the two of them on a cloud above the world. If his happiness was enough, though, then they would be there already. She must always look her best.

She wishes he had more to say, because her dress is new and her lipstick on point and she spent too long on her hair, longer than she is willing to admit. Maybe he likes curls, she thought, she's never tried it before. But when she zips herself up, when she closes her make up bag, when she turns off the iron, she knows better, smiles only to make sure there's no red on her teeth. In the end he only knows where they are going and Misa might as well have been a stack of office papers. He's been meaning to file them, but there are so many other things going on, these important business matters to which he simply must tend. Business as usual, she could say for him, but she won't because it is just too much.

They sit without speaking, Misa wrapped around his arm, and when they touch she's always surprised that he is so warm. No music, no chatter, the car is quiet; maybe this would be perfect at any other time. After all, she's heard silence between lovers is supposed to be intimate. But they are far from home and so that means everything must be different for a while. Who is she kidding? No one is laughing, certainly not her. She used to tell herself that maybe this time will be different, but it's the same as burning herself with matches over and over again. Maybe it won't hurt, not this time. But that doesn't stop her from starting fires.

This time. Maybe this time. She can only take so many of his honeyed words.

When they arrive he tips generously, opens her door, seats themselves at the best table with a view of the city, even goes to far as to ask about her latest movie shoot. It is surprising, to say the very least, but it only makes her stare at the tablecloth and forget what he is saying. Conversation with a stranger would have been better. Sure, this is Light Yagami: reserved, patient, polite, and everything he's expected to be. But he isn't the only one. Still, she laughs often, touches his hand, checks her make up. Check, check, check.

Then, when the time is right, she's a little too loud, is a little too friendly with their cute waitress (he hates that, right?). Get whatever you want, he says, so she must choose wisely, expertly, the kind of wine that will make him cringe. He rolls his eyes, and it's not her fault something ignites in her stomach. He scowls. She tries not to smile. Oh, but she can, she can smile, because he hates that too, doesn't he? How dare she smile. By the time he announces their leave, she's already downed her glass of wine, and his voice threatens her in a way that is so much more deadly than shouting could ever be.

_"We were having a good time! All I wanted was to have a fun night with you. That's all I wanted!" _It is not a lie. They could have stayed longer. She would have liked that. Light's smug demeanor was entertainment in itself, and the waitress was fun and kind. They could have chatted together. They could have talked about movies. But to be Light's is to abandon all else. They are not normal people. And so she performs.

Besides, her body tingles. There is something delightfully erotic when he drags her from the restaurant to open air, the kind of closeness she will never otherwise receive. For a moment she thinks about never letting go. For a moment. But she remembers where she is, who she is, who they are and how much she is feeling, and that is that. His back is strong and broad, his hair ruffles as they wait for their ride, his grip is tighter than it should be. She wants to whirl him around, kiss him just like that, the way it should be. She wants to fall over right then and there.

How easy it would be, the thin layer of white dressing the pavement, to slip and fall like people do, to laugh and pick each other up. What if they walked the deserted city streets, nothing but lights and cold and wind? They could peek in all the tiny shops, pick out their favorite decorations, get lost a little. They'd find a tiny café on the corner and warm up with hot chocolate. They'd hold hands and watch the weather because they can. If only it snowed this way in Tokyo, he would say. They'd have this all the time, late night walks in the quiet, and she agrees. When they return to the hotel they've no idea what time it is, but that's okay because there's no agenda. They can be as long as they'd like.

But she doesn't slip. She never slips.

Instead she hangs off his arm and pretends to stumble inside the car, lets Light tell her about the fun that they will not have tomorrow and tries to think of what the rest of the night will be like instead. At least she has that. He's already warming up and if there is one thing she does well, it is this. At least she can trust herself. She keeps saying that. Because there is still something in his gait, his presence, like this snow scene painted itself for him. It has waited for them to storm from the restaurant so that he can push her against the building, pull her to the cab and hotel room, throw her to the bed and make her forget. She leans, squeezes her legs together.

When he reaches for aspirin she already knows. When he comes in disheveled as a so-called god can get. Oh, this is it. She pulses with energy. They are far away, she is important enough for him to keep. It can't get any better than this. He makes it too easy. She has words she's been saving, and she knows how to use them.

_"You overestimated yourself, Light."_

When they're finally done, after he's come and fallen asleep, she rolls over knowing that she cannot be another way. After all, she is made of nothing, right? Maybe, she sometimes thinks while drifting off to sleep, maybe it could have been different. She could have met an average college boy who likes fashion, horror movies, and her. Maybe it could have been like that. Maybe Kira could have been someone else. But he isn't. He is the right and wrong, a so-called god with a sense of justice that doesn't even save her. Yet he shares his bed, his life, his world. And his family thinks she's pretty. It's true—where would she be otherwise? She never lets herself answer that one.

If Misa Amane knows one thing, it's that his love is cheap and toxic and any other woman in her position would have left him by now. He is groomed hair, polished shoes, black pants, and ironed shirts, a designer suit that he's no doubt been saving for a rare occasion such as this one, and fuck, sometimes she thinks sleeping next to him might be worse than sleeping alone. But no, she decides, giving him one last glance, she would much rather be trapped with him for the remainder of her life. She'd prefer it to just about anything, she thinks, she knows. Even the college boy wouldn't be an improvement. But it doesn't matter anyway because he is not here. No one is here. She is alone with the love of her life. In other words, it couldn't be worse.

But there is love and then there is survival.


End file.
